


the devil's got your number tonight

by brophigenia



Series: the one with the vampires [5]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Cock Warming, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Declan Lynch: Demon Hunter, F/M, M/M, Mild D/s, Polyamory, Ronan Lynch: Vampire Slayer, Underage Drinking, bc it's the lynch brothers, but i gave him an aston bc they're sexier, i think canon!declan drives a volvo, mild religious themes, not discussed onscreen but previously negotiated polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 18:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18104012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: “Lynch,” the demon hisses, and Declan opens his eyes to the horror of it, like melted wax spilt over a boar’s head and all of it sewn onto the body of a man, skin scarlet red and rolling eyes the hot blue of hellfire.“Lynch,”it repeats, and Declan squares his shoulders.(AKA, the adventures of Declan Lynch: Demon Hunter/Big Brother Extraordinaire. With sexy results.)





	the devil's got your number tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, what the actual fuck
> 
> title from mcr's save yourself, i'll hold them back
> 
> also i got the johnny i hardly knew ye thing from stuff my family does. my great grandma was a folk singer/songwriter and so my entire family on that side is always saying stuff like 'jump back, clyde' etc. there's like a musical call-and-response type exchange for any given situation. it's adorable. we're all fucking cute.

Declan never dreams. Dreams are for those who have time, and hope. 

Declan has no time. Declan has no hope. 

There is only  _ this.  _

***

He’s got a map of the tri-state that he keeps in a dresser drawer, buried beneath his socks and Playboys and the little baggy of Addy he keeps in case of emergencies. The map is marked with red circles on every crossroads, and almost half of the red circles are underneath a black ‘x.’ 

The latest one is about forty miles outside of Henrietta. There are berries growing in thickets all around the edges of the gravel and dirt stretches that dare to call themselves  _ roads  _ in this modern age. He thinks about when he was young, and his father was still alive, how his mother would take all three of them berry picking, a big basket on her hip for collecting the berries they gathered. By the time they got home they’d all have blue-black fingertips and lips, and everything would taste like blackberries for a full week. Declan remembers the last time, and he remembers the first time, and all the times in between. 

He’d been cursed with a good memory, and even at nineteen wished he could forget. 

“Demon, I summon thee,” he murmurs, and stands right at the center of the intersecting roads, waiting with his eyes closed and his ears open, all of him on the alert. 

The smell of sulfur rises in the air; the demon comes, drawn by the pig’s blood he’d poured onto the ground and by the reverberation of his soul, black as night.  _ Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,  _ Declan thinks, and his hand twitches at his side with wanting to make the sign of the cross over himself, a reflex he’d not yet grown out of. 

“Lynch,” the demon hisses, and Declan opens his eyes to the horror of it, like melted wax spilt over a boar’s head and all of it sewn onto the body of a man, skin scarlet red and rolling eyes the hot blue of hellfire.  _ “Lynch,”  _ it repeats, and Declan squares his shoulders. 

“Do you have experience with Lynches?” He asks it, and does not yet reach for the knife strapped to his forearm or the gun at the small of his back. Keeps his hands loose at his sides, his spine straight. No outward indication of the violence perched right at the tip of his tongue. 

The demon groans; Declan’s jaw tightens, waiting. “Do you know any other Lynches?” He asks again, almost-impatient. The demon is used to impatience; the demon only deals with desperate men. 

_ “Niall,”  _ it says, spitting like the word is scorching its forked tongue. “The  _ slayer.”  _ Declan nods, satisfied. Demons do not lie when there is the chance to brag; regardless, Declan cannot allow it to remain. Not at this crossroads. Not anywhere near Henrietta. 

(Not anywhere near the most desperate man Declan knows; not anywhere near  _ Ronan.)  _

“Tell him I said  _ hi, Dad.”  _ Declan says, and in the next moment has his knife in the thing’s left eye. It screams as it dies, an animal sound. 

It  _ is  _ an animal, he reminds himself, no matter how human its curled, defensive hands look. 

***

Ashley is distracted when she answers his call. He can tell, because her tone is distant and she uses more  _ hmms  _ than actual words. He hears pages turning, the rustle of paper, in the background. She’s studying. She spends the majority of her free time studying. It’s a quality he’d never really appreciated much before in his girlfriends, figuring that an empty-headed long-legged girl would be better for his image than a bookworm. 

He was wrong on that part; Ashley doesn’t demand anything from him except respect and breathing room, and it’s easy to go about his business when he doesn’t have a rich blonde draped all over his shoulders. 

“I won’t be around tonight.” He says, as he’s patting down the makeshift grave with the shovel he always keeps in his backseat. The demon had folded up neatly enough when he put enough elbow grease to the task; they always did. He’d only had to dig a hole three feet by three feet, not nearly as back-breaking as some of the things he’s had to do in the name of corpse concealment. 

“Hmm,” Ashley mumbles, and he can practically see her rubbing at her forehead, glasses on and contacts out and wearing an oversized Dartmouth sweater passed down from some older brother or cousin or another, long legs tucked up criss-cross-applesauce. It’s not a  _ stirring  _ image, but it makes him feel fondness swelling in his chest. “Everything go okay?” She asks, and it’s not just perfunctory.

“As well as can be expected.” He answers, and this seems to satisfy her, because her  _ hmm  _ is warmer, pleased. Relieved, maybe. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” He promises, and after she says  _ bye, babe  _ he sets a reminder on his phone to do so. 

He’s covered in dirt and demon blood; the shovel goes back into his trunk, its handle folded back up and the spade cleaned off with a Clorox wipe. Neat and tidy. He’ll have to burn the clothes when he gets back to his apartment. Maybe he’ll use the excuse to barbecue on the balcony. 

More likely, he’ll burn it all on the roof and then eat a protein bar before passing out for his nightly four hour power nap. 

_ Maybe,  _ he amends as he gets into the driver’s seat,  _ whiskey and a protein bar.  _

***

Every Lynch has their obsession. 

For Niall, it had been the Lynch Bestiary, a compendium of all the knowledge he could find on the supernatural-- histories, hiding places, methods of execution, usefulness. 

For Ronan, it was trying to save everyone but himself, trying to disprove what their father’s entry on Half Vampires said. 

For Matthew, it was pretending at normalcy, pretending he wanted and needed no part in the birthright that came with being a Lynch. 

For Declan, it’s Jiang Zhu. 

***

“Hey, look,” Jiang drawls, lips curling at the very corners. “It’s Declan Lynch.” He’s obscenely cool with a cigarette tucked up between the fingers of his left hand. He stands with his hips cocked, leant up against the Supra like he’s getting paid a million bucks for the endorsement. No one could look better; Declan can hardly stand it, how good Jiang looks. D.C. is an hour from Henrietta even with Ronan’s driving, and Declan wonders at how casual Jiang can seem even when he’s driven an hour on a school night to wait for Declan to come back to the apartment. It’s a fucking  _ Tuesday.  _

Jiang looks for all the world like he just  _ happens  _ to have materialized in front of Declan’s building, like he just  _ happens  _ to be a hundred and twenty miles from where he ought to be at this time at night, this time of the week, this time of the  _ year.  _ He doesn’t acknowledge the mileage or the time, only says  _ hey, it’s Declan Lynch,  _ like it’s some kind of surprise. 

His eyes are critical when they take in Declan’s muddied and bloodied state; they go bright with mirth when he tallies up the score and decides that he’s winning this exchange. It’s always a game; everything is a game. 

_ (Everything.)  _

“Go clean yourself up.” Jiang orders, gesturing carelessly with his cigarette. Smoke streams from his nostrils as he exhales. “You’re not getting that shit on my seats.” As if it’s a foregone conclusion that Declan will do as he says; as if he’s sure Declan’s going to go with him. 

It is. He will. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Declan says mildly, even as he locks the Aston up and goes for the front door of his building, past the blank-faced, non-judgemental gaze of the doorman, Jesper. He doesn’t run, or jog, or do anything but walk at his normal pace, measured and steady, to the  elevator. Upstairs, he lets himself rush just a little bit, scrubbing with cold water in the sink from his fingernails up to his elbows, his face, behind his ears. The soiled clothes he leaves in a plastic bag in the bathtub, to be dealt with later. Then it’s a new suit, this one a dark navy purposed for going out and not to work, cut close with a jacket lined in bright violet silk. He leaves the top two buttons of his shirt undone, doesn’t bother with a tie. 

“Took you long enough,” Jiang says, just on this side of playful, when Declan comes striding back out past Jesper, who touches his fingertips to his cap but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge his hasty entrance and then departure. 

Declan only quirks a savage kind of grin in response, doesn’t retort  _ you’d have waited all night.  _ That’s not what this is about. Jiang doesn’t open the car door for him, but he does wait until Declan’s inside and settled before he flicks his cigarette butt onto the concrete and climbs in, himself, touching the wheel and gearshift with a casual competency that makes Declan’s mouth water just a bit. 

Jiang maneuvers them through the metropolis, steering easily through traffic, weaving and merging like he’s trying out for  _ Fast and Furious 17.  _ It’s so smooth that Declan can finally relax; he tips his head back, rests his hands on his thighs, lets his knees spread a little wider than he might otherwise. He doesn’t pay too much attention to where they’re going; his internal GPS stays alert, but he lets himself drift. Lets himself look over at Jiang, perfect behind the wheel. 

Everything about him is flawless— the shift of muscle beneath his skin, the cut of his jaw, the tone and breadth of his flesh. His haircut. His clothes, chosen to accentuate the leonine leanness of their wearer, urban to a fault but not  _ trendy.  _ Black on black, tight to the biceps and calves, generous with room around the hips. Comfortable, easy to move in. 

He looks like something Declan wants to put his hands all over. 

They park in a copse of trees; Jiang turns the key in the ignition and they are shrouded in darkness. Declan shivers, just a little, a flutter in his core that has never gone away, no matter how long they’ve been doing this. 

“You need a written invitation?” Jiang asks him, slanting a look to his periphery, smiling half a smile, knowing. 

Declan doesn’t. 

He leans down, hands going to the drawstring of Jiang’s sweatpants, pulling them and his boxer briefs down far enough that he can get a grip on Jiang’s cock, thick and not too long. 

Jiang threads his fingers through Declan’s hair, curves his hand around the back of his thick skull, sighs with his abs clenching taut when Declan goes down, down, until his nose meets pubic hair and his throat is full. He stays like that, suppressing his gag reflex and breathing through his nose— it’s how Jiang likes it best. Just being still, nothing but the reflexive swallowing squeezing him tight, both of them quiet in the dark, Declan’s body twisted up and compacted to fit in the space Jiang leaves for him. 

Jiang’s free hand rubs at his back, sweeping down between his shoulder blades and back up again, grounding. It feels so good, to be touched like this. To be touched the exact way he wants to be touched and not have to  _ ask  _ for it. He hates asking. He’s awful at it. No matter how much he tries, he can never get comfortable with the  _ asking.  _

(For Jiang, though, he would  _ beg. _ If he had to. He would beg.) 

Jiang stirs his hips a little, rolling them gently, still stroking Declan’s back. He keeps sighing, sounds lighter than air, even with the tension Declan can feel in him. The hand in his hair tightens minutely, clenches and then releases. 

Jiang doesn’t speak, when they’re like this. Declan had done his fair share of hookups with other Aglionby students, as was nigh unavoidable if you were the least bit inclined towards a bit of Oxford rub. Usually there was a fair bit of talking involved— inarticulate swearing and gasped insults and babbled praise, depending on the temperament of your bedmate and the relationship between the two of you. He finds he prefers Jiang’s silence, which seems more honest than forced dirty talk might. 

Jiang only speaks once, to say  _ Dec,  _ low and serious, a warning before he’s coming, hips arching, so deep that Declan can’t taste it. 

Declan stays down, lets Jiang soften in his mouth. It’s good. It makes something wake and stretch in his gut, pleased and quiet. Purring. Jiang strokes his hair, hums. Finally pulls Declan off, and then presses a kiss to his swollen mouth, almost-chaste. 

“You’re a—“ he doesn’t finish the sentence, but Declan can read between the lines, hearing the sex-slowed fondness in Jiang’s tone. 

“You are, too.” He murmurs, and sits back in the passenger seat, just breathing. Slow, calm breaths. Everything feels manageable, here in the dark. Like maybe his life won’t come down to the measurement of his soul, the weighing of all his sins versus the consideration of his virtues. 

Like hell and all its demons aren’t waiting for him, a yawning maw of eternal torment looming at the end of the tunnel. 

Jiang doesn’t start the car for a long time; he reaches across the center console and twines their fingers together. 

Declan’s hard, but he ignores it. Doesn’t want to deal with the mess of  _ dealing with it. _ It’s been a long day; Declan just wants to  _ rest.  _

Jiang understands. 

He always does. 

***

Jiang doesn’t drive off until he’s made it through the front door; Declan’s neck does not warm at the realization, but he bites the inside of his cheek to keep his expression blank. 

He’s the only one in the elevator. 

His brother, the mess of a man, is sitting in front of his door, hunched and curled in on himself like a great big crow perched on a line. 

“Johnny, I hardly knew ye.” Declan utters, dry as bone, an automatic response for surprises such as this one. A holdover from childhood. He sounds just like their father. 

Ronan does not comment on this, or utter the customary  _ haroo haroo,  _ only blinks tired eyes at his elder brother, mouth flat and chin tucked close to his chest. He looks beyond exhaustion— like he’s moments from death, so tired his heart may lose the will to beat at any given moment. An admonishment rests on the tip of Declan’s tongue, waiting to be released. Their mother’s clucking—  _ Ronan Niall Lynch, you’ll run yourself into the grave! _

“C’mon then,” he says instead, with a jerk of his head, as clipped and spare as any son of Niall Lynch can be, unknowingly reminiscent to his grandmother, long-dead now. Roisin Lynch, perpetually in an apron and starched shirtwaist, with hair as black as night that, when unbraided, hung to the backs of her knees when she stood. She’d died with not a strand of it gray. The legend of her had been oft-told in the Lynch house. 

Ronan comes willingly enough into the apartment, sitting in the chair Declan indicates with a lazy wave of his hand. “You weren’t home,” Ronan observes, hoarse like he’d been crying. Or screaming. There is a bruise fading on his throat like a handprint, and puncture wounds scabbed over, besides. 

Declan pours himself a drink— scotch, from the bar cart in the corner. He nods his head at the second highball he’d pulled out and left empty, a silent question.  _ Do you want one?  _

Ronan shrugs, which means  _ maybe but not right now.  _ Declan pours him one anyway, just a finger, and passes it over before answering.

“I had some business to handle.” He didn’t blush. Didn’t swallow around the scraped-raw feeling in his throat, Jiang’s phantom cock filling him still. Wanted to. Didn’t. There was no space here for that. “Is there something going on?”  _ Do you need help?  _

Ronan swallows the scotch in one gulp, seeming to decide that he’ll need it, and then waits a moment, rolling the glass between his palms restlessly, staring at the movement instead of looking at Declan. With his head bowed, he could almost be at prayer. Declan waits, too. He’s had a lot of practice at building up patience. It comes with being an older brother. His lot is always to wait. 

(And to worry.) 

“I am having a crisis of faith.” Ronan finally settles on, the words too-formal and stilted coming out of his mouth. “Or, fuck. Not a crisis of faith. Just- I don’t think I’m gonna be able to save them.”  _ Them,  _ of course, means  _ Gansey and Parrish.  _ Declan knows. 

“Yeah.” Declan says, simply.  _ Yeah.  _ There’s no other words to say that aren’t either empty platitudes or outright lies. Ronan would appreciate neither, of this he is sure. 

Ronan clears his throat, keeps his gaze on the floor. Doesn’t respond. Declan takes a long pull from his own drink, savors the burn, pretends that he can’t tell how ragged Ronan’s breathing is. 

If they don’t talk, they won’t fight. Declan is content with that, at least for tonight. 

***

In the morning, he goes to class. Politics and Literature of Japan. It’s a 200-level, and he read Murakami when he was thirteen. 

He calls Ashley when he gets out, his phone chirping to remind him, unnecessary but still important. “Morning, babe.” She greets him, less distracted than she’d been the evening before. He smiles at the sound, something he’s been allowing himself to do even around her. Showing her that she pleases him, not just  _ telling  _ her. 

It’s different. She’s different. 

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” He asks smoothly, striding to student parking. He’s the only student in the general vicinity wearing something more formal than a pair of jeans without holes in them. It makes him feel powerful, in control. 

(Nothing makes him feel more powerful than killing, but that’s beside the point.) 

“Could’ve been better,” she says lightly, and means it as a sexual innuendo. He considers his response, before deciding on a correct level of flirtation and promise. He’s good at this, but that’s because he  _ works _ at it. 

“How about I grab you some breakfast from Egg & Company?” He goes on, dropping into a bit of a burr. All-American girls like that, even Ashley, who is eternally a queen among peasants. Just a bit of rough-talking, nothing  _ coarse. _ “And see t’you when I get there?” 

Ashley’s breath hitches just a bit. Just a little. Declan can imagine her, half-ready for the day. Hair in rollers, maybe, a beauty-contest habit ingrained in her from her Georgia peach mother. Wearing her robe, though she’d insist hotly it was her  _ dressing gown.  _

The thought isn’t a wildfire but it is a simmer in his gut, heat spreading as he thinks about his hands spanning her thighs, opening her up for his mouth. The grip of her hand in his hair. Her taste, like melted saltwater taffy. 

“Yeah,” she says, a little rough herself. “Strawberry smoothie and an egg white bagel. No bacon, I’m off meat this week.” 

“Be there in twenty.” He hangs up without a  _ bye.  _ She won’t mind. 

He swallows, feels the last of the memory of Jiang’s cock in his throat disappear as he does. 

“Haroo, haroo.” He murmurs wryly. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
